


Slavic Sibling Vignettes

by RunningOnChocolate



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Human Names Used, pet death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningOnChocolate/pseuds/RunningOnChocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted short stories starring assorted nations: Russia buries an old friend whom he outlived - Belarus muses in the bathtub</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Russia

Ah, sentiment. Without it, he would have become frozen like ice centuries ago, too weak to fight strong, southern enemies; too callous for friendship. With it, however, Ivan found himself in situations like this: misty eyed over an old fishing cat that had lived – and now died – by the lake house he visited over holidays. 

Foka was an ugly, cunning old rascal. When Ivan had first spotted him slinking along the lake shore at twilight on the eve of the century, the little kitten had already lost part of an ear. For a few pathetic mewls, the cat received the remainder of a crust and, after that, there was no going back. 

Matted-furred, unfriendly toward man and beast, and despised by the current mortal tenants, the tomcat was forbidden from the house. However, he wouldn't have gone inside unless forced, anyway (and even then, Ivan doubted his ability to control the creature _that_ much); instead, he made his way under the deck during the long winters, and into Ivan's Christmases and summers. 

On starry, moonlit, cold, rainy, or even snowy nights, when all the mortals had gone to bed and no fellow nation was visiting, they would sit together on the dock, fish together, lay under a tree in the woods together, take shelter in the barn together, and otherwise enjoy the cat's tiny world together. Foka liked the warmth of such a big friend, and Ivan liked the company.

Unlike most mortal humans, the beast had easily understood and respected Ivan's grave occupation. Perhaps that understanding had been the only thing great enough to earn its respect. Ivan had never asked. 

Ivan had only accidentally found the body, waiting by the path and lightly dusted with drifted flakes, like Foka wanted to be found (very unlike a cat).

So now, in one of the small, forgotten clearings in the woods, where they had stargazed countless times, it was no small task to bury the creature. Part of the trouble was the season. By now, the lake was frozen, not to mention the surrounding land, and all was beautifully hidden by snow. But he _would_ provide a proper burial, snow and back breaking work and all. 

Katyusha and Natalya were visiting now, and he was embarrassed to set out a cat's corpse in front of a household that hated cats and was very modern minded, much less family that didn't receive half as much respect in life as he would be giving a mere animal in death. Ivan thought that Foka had lived a full, long life, and had died a very good death for a cat, so burial _was_ necessary, and he didn't have the gall to try and bury the body in a human cemetery. Sewing together a shirt and trousers for the beast seemed indecent, so an unfinished quilt sufficed. The coffin was an altered gift box (altered so as to seem less morbid). Ivan _had_ washed the body as if it were human, though. He wouldn't give a lesser funeral to any deceased friend. 

 

Six pm found him still digging, now with a flashlight's artificial assistance, while the coffin reverently sat under their tree. Shoveling the snow away had been easy, but it took him a modest ten minutes to make a noticeable dent in the ground. By now he was almost a meter down, sweating under his heavy coat, and tearing up. 

Little Foka was gone. 

Ah, he could mourn when the beast was under earth. Work first, then cry. 

The moon was rising by the time he finished digging. The hole was small, but large enough for the box-come-coffin, and he had to climb out, grab the coffin, climb back in, and set it at the bottom to get it in properly. Pausing after climbing out once again, he bowed his head and said a quick prayer for the creature, however insignificant it might be to God. A couple of handfuls of displaced dirt and snow were thrown on the lid. Then he picked the shovel back up, struck it into the large pile, and began to refill the hole. While he did, the sky seemed to cry frozen tears with him, cold flakes touching then melting on and mingling with tears on his hot face. 

At last, when clouds had covered the moon and only his feeble flashlight held off the darkness, the ground was all replaced. Ivan threw the shovel aside and gruffly sat down. Only then did he remember his neglected sisters back at the house, probably anything but concerned about him. Besides, they could worriedly wait up all night for all he cared. So long as neither bothered the mortal hosts, it didn't matter to him. 

He had lost a good friend. Foka had died before today, but Ivan hadn't even thought of the possibility. Cats do that to you: appear completely fine up until they die. So aggravating. Most other creatures show obvious wear. How dare that ugly, mean little beast evoke such strong emotions in such a proud old man? Foka's life had been as ephemeral to Ivan as insects' were to mortal men! 

Yes, but the short friendship had been good. Good to him, good for him, good for the cat and its stomach. Ivan unwound the purple scarf he was wearing and wiped his face with it, but his eyes were still streaming tears. What use were tears? 

Ah, _sentiment_.

Finally, he _really_ cried. Ivan buried his face in the scarf, bawling muffled by the thick wool. 

To live in Russia for so long, one forms a very intimate relationship with grief. To be Russia incarnate, the intimacy is tenfold. In the misty, early years of his existence, he had sobbed with Katya and Talya, childish wails and meek mewling over loss of food or friends – like the kitten by the lake. While the march of imperialism waged on, he became a proper man and experience told him not to waste tears on petty things. He loved his sentiment, though, and had never truly followed that teaching. 

Animals are much easier to love than humans or nations. Nations are too petty and volatile and cruel. They make treaties with each other and violate them. They kill and maim each other in battle, then malign each other in peacetime. He had lost a _great_ friend today. 

He didn't even realize he was no longer alone until a pair of gloved hands pressed onto his shoulders, then two arms circled his neck. Instinctively, he jolted to buck the attacker off, but it was only Katyusha, who squealed and coughed at being hit on the neck by her brother's solid, head. Ivan had ended up sitting with his head in his hands, and for a short moment, he didn't understand why it was still pitch black when he lifted his head. The scarf was frozen to his face. He yanked it away to reveal snow accumulation all over everything and a large, old fashioned lantern – obviously set there by his sister – that was casting a glow over the clearing. 

“Was it that mangy cat?” Katya half-whispered, breathing hot breath on his snow covered hair as she stroked a few strands from his face. 

“Da.” Ivan leaned back against her, suddenly alert to how frozen and drained he was next to warm Katya. 

“Sorry.” She rubbed his shoulder, bringing meager feeling back into it. “How did it die?”

He hiccuped, half sobbing, half laughing at the woman's poor choice of question. “I don't know,” he mumbled. “He must have decided it was about time, found his place, and laid down. He knew I would find him.”

“Mean kitty, making you cry,” she said, a smirk evident in her voice. 

“Da, and I was having such a good winter, too.” He took a deep breath. Crying time done. 

Katya was silent for a while. She withdrew her arms and sat down beside him, a cold deed in nothing but a coat and her pajamas. For several minutes, they stared at the grave together. Ivan couldn't think of any further respects to pay, but he didn't feel right leaving just yet, either. Katya shifted her weight a few times, sniffed, and yawned.

“Have I disturbed you?” she asked finally, but Ivan only shook his head. Right now he didn't care that official relations between them weren't favorable. She might have been interrupting him, but he didn't mind. Sister, and the light she carried with her, were warm comforts on a cold night. 

He stretch his stiff arms and placed one around her strong shoulders and unfashionable coat. She tenderly placed a hand on his back and laid her head on his shoulder in return. 

Barely above a whisper, Katya said, “sometimes we need to be sentimental.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy i love this little piece. CATS, MAN. anyway, my friend asked me to write a story about Russia crying and Ukraine comforting him and I accidentally produced my magnum opus.


	2. Belarus

She hears the strangest things when her ears are underwater.

Fingernails dragging across the side of the tub, the boom of smacking her hand or foot or head on the bottom, the roar of the water's atoms in their eternal movement – those are the noises she prefers to hear.

_glirp glub bliff bloop_

When outside of the tub, the regular world is quite like her: dead silent, with the sporadic interruptions of shrieks and howls – voices talking to each other, to her, to themselves even. She doesn't really register what they say very often. The conversations start, fray out or clam up, or burn out and end, and for lack of originality, no one remembers them. The _how-are-you's, I'm-doing-such-and-such-would-you-care-to-join-me's, you're-doing-such-and-such-whether-you-like-it-or-not's_ , and pointless gossiping sum up all household conversation.

To be honest (and why not? She _is_ alone and thinking to herself), some of the shrieks and howls aren't as terrible as others. She _cares_ about some of them, and sops up some of the gossip (usually when it's not related to or directed at her), saving it for later. Never an optimist, she doubts it'll ever come in handy.

_but i have a habit_

Like her, it's very cold inside the house. (It's very cold outside, too, but that's another story entirely.) Getting out of the bathtub is more torturous than literal and actual torture (and she, of all people, knows torture). The water itself has usually become ice cold by the time she gets out (or room temperature, depending on your temperament), and no amount of fluffy towel could ever remedy that. Considering this, her ritual for getting out the bathtub is cruel and masochistic: after draining it, she slowly stands in the tub (won't do to get the rug all wet), grabs her towel, dries herself with it, drops the towel on the floor beside the tub (her feet are hard to dry in the tub), then runs over it to her clothes on the counter. Because her fingers and toes are frozen, she always wears gloves and stockings. Everyone stalks around the house like country-folk in a primitive cabin, wearing layers upon layers of clothes and weighing their beds down with whatever heavy blankets they can scrounge together (sometimes not very many).

That insufferable _man_ never acts cold. Surely he is only covering it up with smiles and lies, secret undershirts, and his incessant, vigorous work ethic. Perhaps he is dying, and wishes to appear as strong and flawless as possible before the end. It would explain how cordially he treats her ( _how egregious of him_ ).

_get out of my head, please_

He comes to mind when she's not obsessing over other things (rarely, she has a country to care after and a family to worry about), lingers far past his welcome, only leaving when she has some demanding task to concentrate on. All the nice, sugar coated words that shouldn't stick longer than old tape come to mind – every how-are-you, how-are-your-classes-going, will-you-still-not-let-me-clean-your-room, and I-hope-you're-doing-well. She can't really escape them in the tub, there's nowhere to go, nothing to look at and get distracted by in here (all her sore muscles have been prodded at and mused over, every knot and tangle in her hair picked apart); the cracked and wildly patterned ceiling makes a good backdrop to zone off to, also.

Heretic thoughts drift through her like air; she breathes in a notion of accepting the next dinner invitation he offers, a nice memory of their childhood together, a compliment on his persevering spirit – then breathes it out, stashes it away, discards it.

_i don't even like you_

(He's very sweet and gentle.)

(She's very bitter and harsh.)

_you are a sentimental fool_

It's as cold as her here (in the bathroom, in Belarus, in the country house), and she's the only one out of the whole group who really belongs with the ice outside.

She thinks of herself at times, wondering if she really is some sort of frozen entity, doomed to eternal apathy. Normal people have friends. Snow queens have statues to talk at and scribble identities onto.

_this one likes to cook, that one likes boys, the other one sings me to sleep at night_

She hears the strangest things when her ears are underwater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my original intent with this was to make it vague enough to be either litbel or some of my ocs. now i feel silly for doing that, but the piece proves salvageable.  
> i'm pretty sure Talya just needs to go see a therapist.


End file.
